A Year Apart
by lilien passe
Summary: Normal is the watchword for four university students and their friends. But as time goes on, their lives start to rebel against anything resembling the mundane. An AU fic centering around Arthur, Gilbert, Alfred and Ludwig with cameos by others.
1. Chapter One

-Author's Notes-

I have just gotten over the worst case of writer's block of my life. This is why Porzellan, Comfort Words… pretty much all of my multi-part fics have been ignored and abandoned. I really didn't intend to start another series, but hey – at least it got me writing again.

This may seem innocuous enough at the start, but I assure you, in the long run it is going to end up being very angsty, a little dark, and hopefully very… dramatic. It's also looking like it is going to be very long. But like with everything, I promise I will eventually finish it. Promise.

Let me know what you think. This is a bit of an experiment, after all.

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_A Year Apart_

-Chapter One-

Arthur pushed aside piles and piles of empty hangers, cursing. He glanced again at the clock and bit back a torrent of rage infested swears. Exactly three minutes until his bus came. He redoubled his searching efforts, emptying the contents of his nearly empty closet at an alarming rate. From the direction of the living room, he heard the pantry being opened, and he quickly abandoned his shirt-devouring closet in favor of the more likely suspect.

"Gilbert!"

The pale man froze, his hand buried inside a box of Captain Crunch. He looked vaguely guilty about this as he swallowed. "He-hey Arth. I was just gonna grab a handful and then I swear I'll put your box back-"

"Bugger the cereal!" Arthur snapped, although he shot his one and only box (of which he had consumed none, and yet was already more than half empty) a longing glance. "Did you take my button-up?"

"Which one?" Gilbert asked innocently, attempting to conceal the cereal behind his back. "You got more preppy shirts than a Ralph Lauren catalogue. Can't expect me to keep track of them all."

Arthur furrowed his heavy eyebrows in a way he knew made the other man cringe. "The white one with blue stripes. It's about the only clean one I have left, you git."

Gilbert immediately eyed the door to their small two-bedroom apartment as he fidgeted with the hem of his T-shirt. "Ah. That one. It's... currently occupied."

Arthur feared for the worst, but he asked anyway. Masochism was the new trend, after all. "How, may I ask, can a shirt be occupied?" he said in his most pandering voice.

"Well, when it's being worn, for one. Seems pretty occupied to me," Gilbert helpfully pointed out, cautiously shoving another handful of cereal in his mouth.

"...So who's wearing it?"

Gilbert swallowed. "No one."

Arthur exploded. "Bloody fucking hell you _just_ said-"

"Didn't 'say' nothin'. Merely pointed out one possible way for a shirt to be occupied."

Arthur felt a migraine coming as he glanced at the clock. He had about thirty seconds until his bus left and rendered him late for class. Again. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Then let me rephrase before you force me to resort to homicide at such an early hour. Where. Is. My. Shirt."

Gilbert jerked his head towards the balcony. Arthur cautiously walked over to peer through the glass sliding doors. There was his shirt all right. It was stretched out, spanning the entire length of the balcony, two rubber bands tied to either sleeve securing it in place. But...

"You've, ah... probably noticed that it's pink now."

Arthur just continued to stare as he took a deep breath. "Is there an explanation you'd be willing to give or should I just count my losses and bill you for a new one right now?"

Gilbert moved to stand next to the British man, shrugging his shoulders. "Neighbors across the alley challenged me to a water balloon fight. Which then turned into a paint fight. And then a things on fire fight. Then the fire department came like they always do for some reason but we managed to get most of the evidence stashed away before they busted in here."

Arthur felt the normal numbness that seemed to come hand in hand with Gilbert's explanations render him incapable of caring. "Who was on duty?"

"Frank."

"Ah. That's well good then. If it'd been George you'd have been screwed."

"Yeah. Man, I fuckin' hate law enforcement with scruples. Makes things way too hard for me. And..." Gilbert shot the clock a meaningful glance, "Not that I'm encouragin' continuin' education or anythin', but don't you have a class to get to? Like five minutes ago?"

Arthur just sighed. "...Yes."

Gilbert raised an eyebrow, red eyes flicking outside to view the abandoned paint splattered shirt. "...That really your last clean one?"

Another sigh. "...Yes."

Gilbert ran a hand through his hair. "C'mon. I'll fix you up."

Arthur wordlessly followed his roommate, not even blinking as Gilbert handed him a black shirt. He shrugged it on over his undershirt, but then paused.

"...Gilbert."

The pale man grinned. "Yeah?"

"...Why in fuck's name do you have a shirt that says 'I Love My Clit' on it? In shiny red glitter, no less."

Gilbert shoved another handful of cereal in his mouth. "Dated a chick who had a bit part in _The Vagina Monologues_. She left it at my place."

Arthur massaged his temples. "You don't have anything else I could borrow?"

"For you? No."

Arthur opened his mouth to yell at the older man when Gilbert tapped the back of his wrist. "Whoa. You sure you got time to be standin' here debatin' women's empowerment apparel with me? Don't you got a test today?"

With a vicious frown and some vague promise that 'this is not over by a long shot Weillschmidt', Arthur stormed out of the apartment, bag clutched over his chest to hide the embarrassing slogan. Gilbert watched him go, an amused expression on his face. "Damn," he muttered, "Forgot how raunchy the back of that thing is."

***

Arthur cautiously opened the door to the classroom, breathing a sigh of relief when he found the professor's podium conspicuously vacant. His slid into his assigned seat, wondering not for the first time why in God's name this professor still insisted on sitting them alphabetical order. Gilbert had suggested it was merely a measurement put in place to combat encroaching senility, but this argument fell rather flat when Arthur pointed out that the professor was a whopping thirty two years old. Gilbert then called him an ageist and threatened to sue. Somehow the majority of their conversations usually resulted in Gilbert threatening a lawsuit whenever he found himself backed into a corner.

However, under normal circumstances, Arthur wouldn't have minded the assigned seating. He rather liked it, actually, as the small seminar class of mixed graduate and undergraduate students tended to be rather packed. No, Arthur hated it for another reason. A reason that was currently sidling into the room as though he owned the place, the Greek letters on the front of his shirt making every girl in the aisle follow him with big, baleful eyes as he made his way to his seat. They did this every morning, even though he made the _same bloody entrance_ every single class they had. The twat.

The seat next to him screeched in protest as it was dragged against the tile floor, and Arthur bit his bottom lip to keep from causing a scene like his usually did with his extraordinarily short temper. He focused all his energies on the blank sheet of notebook paper, counting the number of blue lines, then red ones, then all the points where the lines intersected. He tilted his head to the side. If he squinted just right, he could almost see a face staring back at him. And that face was screeching at him to ditch class and filch the notes from someone else.

The arrogant sod seated next to him propped his feet up on the desk and threw him a sunny grin.

"Mornin' Kirk."

Arthur seriously considered taking the hallucinatory notebook paper's advice. "Bugger off, Jones. And don't call me that."

The infuriating blonde just laughed and let his overly large feet thud to the floor. Neanderthal. "Man, I'm never gonna get used to that British humor of yours. The chicks really seem to dig it though." Jones leaned forward, his blue eyes shining due to either a vicious drug overdose, or, Arthur suspected, the fact that his cranium was so spectacularly empty that the shiny spots were just light reflecting off the back of his skull. The two theories were vying for dominance inside Arthur's head as he asked morosely, "I don't suppose there's any chance of you leaving me alone today, is there."

"You know the conditions, Kirkland. You come to one of our parties, supply some of the necessary ingredients, and I never bother you in class again." Jones' grin grew even wider, and Arthur had a vague panicky flashback to being stuck in that movie with the man dressed as a demented clown. Bratman. Batdude. Something like that. Either way, it had given him nightmares for weeks. And it didn't help that Gilbert insisted on reenacting his favorite scenes over and over again. Most of which involved shoving pencils in eye sockets and cackling like a deranged lunatic.

The British man sighed irritably as he tapped his pencil against the desk. "Considering how brilliantly we get along in class, I can't help but wonder how you think adding alcohol to the mix would help. Also..." he glanced at the man sitting next to him, his emerald eyes narrowing in disapproval, "How old are you again?"

Jones actually looked narked for a fraction of a second before slumping in his seat, his bottom lip a pouty half circle. "Nineteen. But I'll be twenty soon."

"No you won't." Arthur straightened his notebook on his desk. "As I recall from your rather overly informative sideshow last week, you have a summer birthday. And I still don't see how the fact that your birthday falls on Independence Day has anything to do with Grendel as you so erroneously claimed."

Jones blinked. "Who?"

Arthur stared down at the cardigan he'd been forced to purchase to cover up the hideously embarrassing shirt Gilbert had lent him. He wondered, not for the first time, what he'd done in a past life to make the letters J and K sit next to each other in the alphabet. He must have killed a whole village of puppies to deserve this. Puppies with feelings. "My God," he droned listlessly. "This is a Classical English Literature seminar, you sorry excuse for a human being. Have you been paying any attention at all these past two weeks?"

Jones was staring off into space, rolling his pen between this thumb and forefinger as he mused aloud. "Don't you think a grendel could be a snack? Some kinda pretzel thing... sounds fuckin' amazing right about now... I'm still a little hung over from last night. Man, you shoulda seen these girls…"

Arthur's hands compulsively wrapped themselves around an invisible neck as Jones prattled on. The British man spent the rest of the seminar attempting in vain to strangle the air in front of him in lieu of his real target as his classmates edged warily away. All except Jones, who remained blissfully ignorant to the homicidal fantasizes of the man seated next to him, as he napped his way peacefully through the lecture.

***

Gilbert sat at his desk, a bowl of Captain Crunch balanced precariously atop a stack of old Marvel comics. He hummed to himself as his computer booted up, the familiar blue screen casting an eerie glow over him as he cooed to the machine.

"_Hallo_ _süßer_. Ready to get to work?"

The computer hummed an affirmative. Or it would have if Gilbert had ever managed to finish debugging the 'SlaveBot3000' program he'd started making back in his two fitful months of graduate school. Honestly. Being dismissed for designing a computer that was engineered solely to attack people whose names started with 'R' just reeked of unfairness. And the insulting warning letters from the university president were really unnecessary. Not to mention the ones from an anonymous source he was fairly sure was the ghost of J. Edgar Hoover.

Gilbert lounged in his chair, scooping up a bite of sodden cereal as he waited patiently for his machine to finish booting. He was rather good at lounging. Well, if he were to be completely honest with himself, he was good at a lot of things. Including stumping his roommate as to where he got enough money to pay rent each month. His favorite excuse had revolved around an elaborate scheme that involved, primarily, blackmailing nuns. He'd managed to write down the obscene string of insults Arthur had hurled his way after the British man had called the supposedly targeted convent to warn them, only to have the nuns hold him on the phone for three hours in an attempt to convert him to the light of Catholicism. Apparently they almost had him until they got around to the whole celibacy issue. Even after the good sisters kindly pointed out that judging from a vague description of his physical appearance he was unlikely to get any regardless of his religious beliefs, Arthur remained unswayed.

Gilbert set down the bowl of cereal and began typing in the two hundred lines of code that granted him access to his hard drive. You could never be too careful. Especially when the majority of your funds stemmed from illicit computer related activities, including, but not limited to: maintaining elaborate and expensive pornography websites, hacking into various databases and personal computers for illegal, legal, and extra-legal purposes, and, of course, running your own web show about cute animals. The 'cute animal' blog was Gilbert's personal favorite cover story. Mainly because he found not only the process of sorting through thousands of pictures of people's pets a rather soothing activity, but also because the median IQ of some of the people kind enough to leave comments on the pictures served as constant inspiration for his next scam.

Gilbert ran through his daily checklist, speaking tenderly to his computer as he did so. "First we need to finish compiling that list of credit card activity for the precinct... then send out the monthly newsletter for 'Busty Asian Beauties'... then find out what the hell a pygmy jerboa is..." he muttered, staring at the DOS screen with keen red eyes. "Then we need to change your IP address again..."

His doting musings were interrupted by a brisk knock on the apartment door. Gilbert hurriedly typed in a string of commands, and the monitor flickered off and on again to reveal a perfectly innocent looking screen. He stood, glancing around him at the disgusting mess his half of the apartment had deteriorated into and quickly shoved a stack of porno magazines underneath the sofa. The pale man made his way to the door, and peered cautiously through the peephole. He swore softly under his breath and darted to the side, out of the line of sight. He ran a hand over his face, and mentally steeled himself before flinging open the door, his most charming smile plastered on his face.

"Gentlemen. To what do I owe this great honor?"

McCormick scowled at him in his usual grudgingly fond sort of way, while the other policeman, a new recruit by the look of him, stood at attention, his right hand still raised as though ready to pound on the door again. McCormick poked the new guy in the back.

"Griff. Say your lines."

The young cop nodded brusquely, and whipped out a thin notepad, flipping through a few pages before clearing his throat and beginning to read.

"Gilbert Weil...Weil..."

"Weillschmidt," Gilbert supplied helpfully, leaning against the doorjamb and throwing a devilishly handsome grin up at McCormick. Who looked decidedly unamused. Fuck.

Meanwhile, Griff was still struggling to verbally arrest him. "Gilbert Weillschmidt-He...He..."

"Weillschmidt-Héderváry." McCormick's voice was so laced with apathy he may as well have been a man on a street corner in a banana suit advertising for some failing business. Gilbert tried his best not to snicker at the mental image.

"Gilbert Weillschmidt-He... whatever!" The young cop angrily flipped his notebook closed and scowled. "Point is, you're under arrest."

Gilbert ignored the new guy and looked up at McCormick, one eyebrow raised. "Arrest?"

McCormick lit a cigarette. "Yup."

"But it's not even Thursday!" Gilbert protested, crossing his arms over his chest and trying to look as adorable and innocent as possible. "You promised it would always be on a Thursday."

"Sorry kid. Shorty here," McCormick jerked his thumb at an enraged looking Griff, "Got antsy when he saw your record. Dug up some new stuff and insisted we march over here."

Gilbert's red eyes narrowed as he turned his attention on the glowering Griff, who at least had the decency to cringe slightly under the keen scrutiny. "...Charges."

Griff swallowed. "Ch-char-…char-"

Gilbert turned to McCormick. "He a special city hire or somethin'? Some kinda outreach program?"

McCormick blew out a hefty lung full of smoke. "I wish. It'd explain a lot."

"The charges are as follows!" Griff angrily interrupted, casting a rather hurt glance in McCormick's direction and opening his notebook as he read aloud. "One: Indecent exposure. Two: Trafficking of illicit materials." He closed his notebook.

Gilbert waited a moment. "...That it?"

"These are serious charges!" Griff exploded, turning to his superior with a rather pleading look on his face. "Tell him, sir! We have evidence!"

Gilbert grinned. "Evidence, huh. This should be rich."

McCormick lazily reached inside his uniform pocket and produced a photograph. He handed it to Gilbert, who studied the picture intently for a moment before bursting out laughing.

"Hey! That's me!"

"Aha!" Griff said triumphantly, flipping his notebook open again to scribble hastily. "So you admit it!"

"Admit to that bein' me?" Gilbert shrugged. "Sure."

"You are aware that in this photo you are _urinating_ on public property?" Griff's eyes gleamed with the light of justice. Gilbert idly wondered if he practiced his League of Justice face in the mirror every morning, or if that sort of thing just came naturally to pretentious assholes destined for a mediocre life of gumshoeing. Probably the former.

Gilbert pretended to study the picture. "Urinatin'? Where?"

"There!" Griff pointed in exasperation. McCormick blew out another puff of smoke, his face clearly suggesting he was counting down the seconds until retirement.

"Don't touch the evidence, Griff."

The gangly man hastily withdrew his hand. "S-Sorry, sir. But there! You can clearly see a... stream. Right there!"

"That?" Gilbert frowned, holding out the photo to the senior cop. "That look like a guy takin' a piss to you, McCormick?"

The tall man puffed on his cig, not even bothering to look. "Dunno. What is it, then?"

"... Graffiti," Gilbert decided.

"Graffiti!" Griff laughed the laugh of one who never got any in high school. "You expect us to believe that? What's more, tagging is still a crime, you idiot! What-"

Gilbert shook his head sadly. "Ah, it seems the new fish has yet to read the full city code."

McCormick took out another cigarette and picked off the filter with a morose expression on his face. "Jesus H. Christ not this again..."

Griff glanced questioningly at his superior before stating somewhat hesitantly, "I... I have read the book of city code violations cover to cover. There is nothing-"

"Paragraph three of section D-7," Gilbert drawled, grinning like a cat that had found an unsupervised fishbowl stocked with overfed guppies. "And I quote: 'Public displays of art, even those not pre-approved by a city commissioner, may be allowed, provided that the artwork displayed is of an educational, political, or environmentally conscious nature.' End quote."

Griff spluttered. "You expect me to believe that... that you were attempting to make an artistic political statement with this? How?"

Gilbert shrugged. "I wrote out 'God Save the Queen". I chose to display the juxtaposition of satire, coupled with the long pop culture significance of the phrase by usin' a rather unique medium that, I feel, speaks for the common man at large. A poor man's paint, if you will. What's more, considerin' the history of this great country of ours, I was reminded of the epic struggle between the Tories and the Whigs, which, if memory serves, rallied around similar mantra that-"

"Enough. You're off for that one, Weillschmidt." McCormick glanced at his watch. "Hurry up and find some way out of the second one so I can take an early lunch. I'm supposed to meet Sarah. Couple's counseling sort of thing. Therapist thinks we need to 'reconnect around daily activities'."

Gilbert nodded sympathetically. "How's that goin' for you?"

McCormick snorted. "Load of shit. Wife insists." He lit another cigarette. "Right Giff. Number two then."

"Ye-yes sir." Griff looked borderline mutinous, his thin moustache twitching in a rather alarming manner, but he soon composed himself as he yelled out, "Drug trafficking! A much more serious charge! I have taken a sample of the evidence found at the scene for your identification!" He whipped a small plastic bag out of his back pocket with a number 'Four' scrawled across the top.

Gilbert took the offered piece of evidence, and opened it, sniffing. He glanced up at McCormick. "...This what you've got on me?"

"A few college students were spotted with this over on Main Street," Griff said, his voice tinged with a smidgen of pride. "After we apprehended them, they said they bought it from you. Didn't sound too pleased with their purchase either."

Gilbert eyed the small bag of green organic material. "Griff, was it?"

The gangly man stood up straight, his small chest puffed out. "Yes. Newly appointed Officer Griff of-"

"Don't care," Gilbert drawled, tossing back the small bag. "Tell me, Griff. What exactly do you hope is in that bag?"

"W-Well... Ma-marijuana... of course," Griff said with eventual confidence. McCormick rolled his eyes behind the younger man's back.

Gilbert nodded. "I see. And have you taken this for testin'? Maybe passed it around the lab before darkenin' my doorstep with your crack-pot theories? Forgive the pun."

"I... McCormick said I should-"

"What you have there, is nothin' less than pure grade, one-hundred percent..." Gilbert yawned, cutting himself off. "...Oregano."

Griff stared at him weakly. "Or...oregano?"

"Useful for cookin'. Can make a frozen pizza taste delectable."

"Sarah likes it on pasta," McCormick chimed in.

Griff was beginning to sweat. "B-But... But you sold it to those kids! I know you did!"

"All I asked them was if they wanted somethin' that could spice up their life," Gilbert said innocently, "Got no idea what they thought I meant by that."

Griff spluttered for a few more seconds in vain before his senior partner clapped him on the back. "Alright Griff. You gave it your best shot. Let's go." McCormick nodded over his shoulder at Gilbert. "Be seein' you Thursday. I'll bring over some leftover pie. Sarah says it's makin' me fat. Bitch."

Gilbert nodded and grinned, making to step back into his apartment when Griff let out an angry and nearly incomprehensible screech.

"JABYERWAIN!"

Gilbert paused and exchanged a wary look with McCormick over Griff's head. "You catch that?"

The cop shook his head, but Griff struggled out of the iron grip and ran back towards Gilbert brandishing another picture.

"JAYWALKING!" he yelled, shoving the picture in the startled man's face. "We caught you on a traffic camera jaywalking!" Griff stepped back, panting heavily, his cheeks a rosy hue. He smiled viciously. "Weasel your way out of _that _one you slippery... weasel."

McCormick sighed heavily and glanced up at Gilbert through reddened and sleep-deprived eyes. "...Well?"

Gilbert studied the picture, chewing on a nail. Finally, he lowered it, grinning sheepishly. "Got nothin'."

McCormick nodded and pushed the gleefully dancing Giff aside, fishing handcuffs off his belt. "Sorry kid," he muttered, clamping the metal on Gilbert's waiting and outstretched wrists. "Maybe we can skip Thursday's normal song and dance to make up for it."

Gilbert shrugged, and followed the tall policeman to his car, ducking his head with practiced ease as the older man helped him in. "Sounds good. We still on for next Friday though?"

The two continued chatting amiably as Giff sidled into the front passenger seat and began filling out paperwork with far too much enthusiasm. A couple times McCormick brought the car to a sudden stop, exchanging a silent grin with the younger man in the back as Giff struggled to complete the increasingly illegible form.

Gilbert fidgeted in the backseat all the way to the station, reading the various notes he had left for himself from times past etched into the shatterproof plastic that separated him from the cops. He frowned.

Arthur had better not screw him on bail this time.

***

The British man on Gilbert's mind had just settled down with a cup of tea at his favorite cafe when he received a familiar phone call.

"Mr. Kirkland?"

Arthur groaned into his tea. He knew that chipper voice. "Rita. What's he in for this time?"

"Jaywalking!" Rita chirped. Arthur could almost hear the receptionist painting her nails as she spoke. "New go-getter wasn't quite used to the Gilbert system. Had him brought in on such a small charge because he thinks it will prove a point."

"The only thing it will prove is that trying to keep that lunatic in a cell for any amount of time is scientifically impossible." Arthur quickly drained the last of his tea, shrugging into his overcoat as he asked, "So how much?"

"Two hundred bucks."

"TWO HUNDRED?" Arthur shrieked, startling the rest of the cafe into silence. "For a fucking jaywalking ticket?!"

"Yup!" Rita said cheerfully, "Oh! And Gilbert wanted me to ask you to bring him a pizza from Toni's. He says the arrest made him miss lunch."

Arthur briefly considered abandoning Gilbert to the mercy of the precinct, before he remembered the large amount of blackmail the older man had on him from that one time with the endless wine coolers party. Just the smell of white zinfandel had made him want to vomit for weeks afterwards.

So it was that half an hour later, Arthur found himself standing in front of the interrogation room, a medium sized sausage pizza in one hand as he knocked on the door with the other. Officer McCormick opened the door and gestured inside.

"Thank god. He was starting to whine."

Arthur sidestepped around the tall officer, nodding in greeting. "You have my sympathies."

"You pay his bail?"

Arthur shook his head, setting the pizza down on the interrogation table and falling into one of the uncomfortable folding chairs. "Not yet. I found myself in need of some leverage, so, as far as arrests go, I think I can use this one to my advantage."

McCormick snorted. "Someone read Machiavelli recently."

"It's Gilbert's favorite book," Arthur muttered, rising to his feet as the door that lead to the holding cells slowly opened. "I've had to memorize the bloody thing just to keep up with him."

McCormick let out a soft 'hmph' as he held open the door to let Gilbert into the room, accompanied by another police officer. Gilbert's face instantly transformed from bitter scowl to ravenous devotion as he spotted the pizza. He held out his hands for McCormick to undo the cuffs, bouncing slightly up and down on the balls of his feet in his impatience.

"Hurry the fuck up, McCormick! God damn, Arth. You've no idea how glad I am to see that you can follow simple instructions." Gilbert rubbed his writs as McCormick took away the cuffs, and the cop rolled his eyes.

"Stop with the dramatics. They weren't even tight."

"I know," Gilbert said, flopping down in a chair and ripping open the pizza box. "But I always see guys do that in like, CSI and shit. Wanted to try it out." He took a huge bite of pizza, spraying crumbs everywhere as he mumbled. "Goddamn Arthur why aren't we married yet? I fuckin' love you."

McCormick walked to the door. "I'll give you and the misses five minutes to straighten out the issue of bail. Consider it a thanks from that one time." He shut the door carefully behind him.

Arthur watched the tall officer go, his green eyes narrowed. "Why in God's name am I the wife?"

"You are the pretty one," Gilbert drawled around a mouthful of food. "Wait. No. You're the subservient one who knows how to obey a man's orders. Go bake me a pie. On second thought, no. I value my intestines too much to risk your god awful cookin'."

"... Moving on from that grossly inappropriate chauvinistic statement..." Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. "Before I bust your sorry ass out of here – and I'm charging 15% interest this time, by the way – I have a proposal for you."

Gilbert eyed the younger man suspiciously, tossing his gnawed crust back in the nearly empty box. "...What's in it for me?"

"You get to avoid being stuck in 'the big house' as you so fondly call it overnight and thus eschew becoming somebody's bitch named 'April'," Arthur said brusquely, picking up a piece of pizza for himself and taking a small bite.

Gilbert grimaced. "Like I'd ever be the bitch." He caught a glimpse of Arthur's scowling face and raised his hands. "Semantics. Continue."

Arthur took another bite. "D'you remember that annoying kid in my Classical Literature class?"

"The blonde with the unusually ordinary soundin' name? Smith? Johnson?"

"Jones. And yes, that's him." Arthur wished he'd brought some soda. Prison had terrible service. "He's offered to leave me alone for the foreseeable future providing I show up at some party of his with, I'm assuming, alcohol."

"Whoa. Jonsey can't even buy his own booze?" Gilbert propped his feet up on the table, frowning. "How old is this kid? We talkin' _Dateline_ worthy or what?"

"Please. He's nineteen, apparently."

"Alright..." Gilbert leaned forward, propping his elbows up on the table. "Just to make sure I'm getting' this right. You'll bail me out of here at the reasonable rate of 15% interest - "

"Compounded weekly."

"...Compounded weekly... " Gilbert ground out, "As long as I buy booze and go with you to this guy Jones' party." He tapped one finger on the table. "Agreed?"

Arthur held out his hand. "Agreed."

"Awesome." Gilbert stood and stretched, "I can't wait to get out of here. I swear they get more and more desperate every time."

Arthur rose to his feet as well, frowning. "So... how did you get out of the more serious charges? I mean, trafficking? That isn't something you can just sweet talk your way out of."

"My mysterious inherent knowledge of every loophole in the legal system reared its magnificent head again to save my ass." Gilbert looked far too smug for someone who had just been stuffing his face with pizza after being trapped in a rancid cell for half a day.

Arthur frowned. "... And you're _sure_ you never studied law? Not even glanced at the city code book?"

Gilbert looked at the younger man incredulously. "...You serious? I don't even know where I'd get one of those fuckin' things."

Arthur gave a shallow sigh. "Then how do you explain it? You can run circles around any judge, jury or lawyer without even trying. Fuck, you HAVE run circles around them on numerous occasions. You have to admit, it is a little off."

"I just chalk it up to my amazin' genius and try not to think too hard about it." Gilbert said sunnily, kicking open the door to the interrogation room. Arthur hurried to follow, glancing over his shoulder.

"Shouldn't we clean that up?"

"Hey, we left them a slice," Gilbert protested. "I figure that's worth throwin' away one measly box."

As they sauntered out of the police station, Arthur just forced himself to look straight ahead, focusing on the fact that for the next few months he'd be receiving a hefty bailout from his roommate - even if the money probably did come from trying to peddle spices from their cabinet to unsuspecting students. Gilbert had bragged once that he'd managed to sell some saffron to a group of ignorant teenagers, claiming it was a new kind of 'red pot'. Arthur doubted the legitimacy of this claim, but sometimes... Gilbert could be rather persuasive. It was possible.

The silver-haired man threw a short and frazzled looking police officer a one-fingered salute as they passed, and Arthur ducked his head, hurrying to fall in stride with Gilbert.

"The hell was that for?"

Gilbert grinned. "Just showin' the new guy the way things work around here."

Arthur felt his temple begin to throb. Gilbert had them all wrapped around his little finger. The country was doomed. Not that he felt particularly invested in the wellbeing of it, but still. Doomed.

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-End Notes-

Don't worry – everything will be explained. Including Gilbert's weird ass long name.

Next chapter will be mainly focusing on Ludwig and Alfred. And thus the interactions begin… Don't worry though if these characters aren't your favorites. There will be many a cameo, I promise.


	2. Chapter Two

-Author's Notes-

So first of all, you may have noticed that I changed the title of this thing. 'Repose' just sounded too hoity-toity for what this thing actually is.

Setting that aside, I hope you enjoy. I had such a hard time dealing with Alfred - even though he's my own country (or more like, because of this...) I have a hard time getting a firm grasp on what I think of him as a character. Nevertheless, this is one of the most fun things to write… I hope it is equally fun to read.

Be careful not to trip over the ending.

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_A Year Apart_

-Chapter 2-

Alfred took the stairs two at a time, juggling a full mug of coffee and a box of donuts. He reached his apartment door and skidded to a stop, frowning at the door.

"...Damn," he muttered. "I need a third hand."

He glanced down at his messenger bag, mentally willing his keys to float out of their hidden pocket and into the lock. What he wouldn't give for Jedi mind powers. A donut. Maybe even two.

Alfred focused on the metal door. Right. Ludwig had better be home.

The blonde slammed his forehead into the door.

He reeled back, and shook his head to clear it, calling out dizzily. "Ludwig! Open the door, man!"

The door, however, remained firmly shut. He tried again.

Thud.

Alfred distantly wondered how many more brain cells he had left to spare on dumb stunts like these when he heard the lock in the door turn. He grinned, and maneuvered the donuts so he could grasp the door handle. He pushed open the door and stepped in, kicking off his shoes as he did so.

"Ludwig? Ludwig, man, you in here?"

The high back desk chair in the corner of the room swiveled around to reveal a very stern looking German. Alfred swallowed a snicker. He could only imagine how many times his roommate had practiced that move to get the timing down. He pictured the blonde glued to the TV, Star Wars blazing across the screen with the same scene playing over and over again.

"Emperor Palpatine..." Alfred mumbled under his breath, grinning.

Ludwig gave a vicious cough, and Alfred jumped, sloshing coffee onto the floor.

Ludwig glared at the American. "You promised."

Alfred shifted side to side, his best hangdog expression on his face. "I-"

"You promised you would, Alfred." Ludwig's light blue eyes looked slightly pained behind his thin rimmed glasses. "We had a deal."

"I know..."

Ludwig made a choked noise of frustration and rose to his feet. "Then what is this?!" He gestured around the apartment, his face a mask of disgust. "Beer bottles in the sink! Scum on the floor! Dirty dishes under my bed."

Alfred just wanted a donut. Or for a stripper to magically appear in their apartment and distract the enraged blonde so he could make a quick getaway. "Look, I was goin' to get around to it-"

"My bed, Alfred F. Jones." Ludwig's voice took on the tone of one on the verge of a breakdown of some sort. "My. Bed. How the hell did those dishes even get there?!"

Alfred gave a polite cough. "There... wasn't any more room under mine."

Ludwig looked faint as he sat back down. "Never... never again..." he mumbled, taking off his glasses with one shaky hand and pinching the bridge of his nose.

Alfred frowned and set his coffee mug down on the counter, popping open the box of donuts. He offered one hesitantly to Ludwig. "...Bavarian cream filled?"

Ludwig looked at him with the face of a drowning man, but he wordlessly rose to his feet and accepted the donut with a quiet "Thank you.". He tilted his head to the side. "...Alfred?"

The younger man took an enthusiastic bite of his donut. "Mmph?"

"...I hesitate to ask, but why do you have the numbers one, three and seven embedded in reverse on your forehead?"

Alfred swallowed. "Had to knock on the door."

"Knock on the...oh," Ludwig's face flitted between amusement and deep concern before finally settling on forcibly impassive. "You couldn't have used your foot? Or your hand? I heard those are useful for opening doors."

"Wearin' sandals," Alfred mumbled between bites. "Would've hurt. Plus, donuts. Didn't want to set 'em down."

"Of course. Sandals and donuts. That... explains everything. Surprisingly enough." Ludwig ran his hands through his carefully styled hair before settling down at his drafting board again and getting back to work.

Arthur watched him for a moment as he finished his donut, licking the glaze from his fingers. "…Hey."

Ludwig's perfectly straight line skittered slightly off course. "I've told you not to talk to me when I'm drafting," Ludwig muttered through gritted teeth.

"Sorry."

Alfred took a sip of his coffee. Ludwig tapped his pen against the desk, and finally snapped. "What?"

Alfred blinked. "What what?"

"What did you want?!"

"You told me not to talk to you."

"Well now that you have my attention, you could at least follow through."

"Fine." Alfred sipped his coffee. "You comin' to the party tonight?"

Ludwig gave a shallow sigh. "What party."

"The one at the house." Arthur carefully selected another donut. "Remember? I told you about it yesterday."

"Look... Alfred..." Ludwig sounded uncomfortable, and fumbled with his pens. "I don't... really.... want to."

There was a surprise. Alfred pressed on despite the utter predictability of Ludwig's response. "Why not?"

"I've told you. I just don't like that whole... fraternity scene."

"Why not?"

Ludwig fiddled more, straightening his many rulers into parallel lines. "... It's just a glorified cult."

"It is not!" Alfred protested, slightly hurt.

"It is."

"Is not!"

Ludwig swiveled in his chair again to fix Alfred with a meaningful look. "Is there a secret handshake?"

Alfred frowned. "You know I'm not allowed to talk about that."

"Which segues nicely to my next question." Ludwig rested his chin on his hands. "Are there things you're forbidden to talk about?"

"N...o..." Alfred laced his hands behind his back, crossing his fingers.

"Do you worship a leader of some sort?"

"We don't actually worship Honda," Alfred protested. "We just try and win his favor... with..."

"If the next words out of your mouth are 'ritual sacrifices', then I think this is an open and shut case," Ludwig drawled, drumming his long fingers on the drafting table.

"...Hush," Alfred muttered, crossing his arms and sulking.

"See?" Ludwig calmly returned to his drawing. "Cult."

"...So that's a -"

"Don't even bother."

Alfred wracked his brain for something he could use to persuade his roommate. He had to bring a guest for this week's event. And, if his suspicions were correct, that guy... what's his name... the Brit he'd invited was most likely going to be a no show. And since the majority of the rest of Alfred's friends were already members of the house, he'd been forced to take a rather extreme risk by inviting his anti-socialite best friend.

"If you let me drag you to the party tonight..." Alfred began haltingly, "Then... I promise I will never use the promise of cleanin' the apartment to promise somethin'."

Ludwig froze and whirled around in his chair, his face alight with the prospect of no more dishes developing their own ecosystem under his bed. "...Really?"

Alfred nodded. "Yeah. I'll just, uh... come up with somethin' else to bribe you with." Like promising to not promise to do other chores. He could be on to something here.

Ludwig pushed up his glasses, his expression a poorly concealed mask of hope. His blue eyes scrutinized Alfred's innocent face. "...How long."

"Three hours, tops."

Ludwig went back to work, mumbling over his shoulder, "Cut it down to two and a half and we have a deal."

Alfred drained his coffee, setting the mug down on the counter. He mentally ran through his check list.

Booze.

…That was about it. He nodded to himself.

This was going to be awesomely awkward.

***

Arthur wanted to sink into the sidewalk to get away from the god-awful noise that was following him. He turned around again to glare over his shoulder at Gilbert. The pale man was humming to himself more loudly than usual, presumably so he could still hear his own voice over the twisted screeching noise of aluminum on concrete as he dragged an empty keg behind him. Arthur took another drag of his cigarette, and tried to force himself to calm down.

"Really, Gilbert? You can't just pick the bloody thing up?"

Gilbert took a break from his incessant humming to respond, "Nah. This is easier," before resuming his high pitched noise-making session.

Arthur almost bit his cig in two. "Is it still going to be easier when I rip your fucking arms off in about three seconds?"

Gilbert just raised one eyebrow and grinned. "I'd like to see you try, Harry Potter."

Arthur whirled around, aiming a kick in Gilbert's direction, which the older man dodged easily. "I told you to never fucking call me that you sodding arsehole!" he snarled.

"And I told you to speak mother-fuckin' English. Guess neither of us gets what he wants," Gilbert drawled. "I mean, come on. You expect me to believe that 'sodding' is an actual word? It's like bein' forced to try and understand words from a game of Scrabble with a five year old."

Arthur threw his cigarette on the sidewalk and ground it to dust before lighting a new one. If he got lung cancer from having to smoke to put up with Gilbert, he was going to secretly sign the other man up to be a live organ donor. You could probably donate one lung and still live. Probably. Not that it really mattered much when it came to Gilbert. Arthur didn't feel particularly invested in his roommate's well being at the moment, and what grudging concern he might have been able to dredge up was being slowly scraped away by the noise of the keg on the sidewalk.

Arthur blew out another breath of sweet smoke filled air as he resumed walking down the street. "Setting that completely retarded statement aside for the moment so I can properly ream you about it later, you still haven't told me what you plan on doing with that empty keg."

"It's not empty. I put a six pack worth of beer in it," Gilbert pointed out.

"And that might as well be pissing in the ocean," Arthur snapped. "Jones was pretty explicit. Showing up empty handed to this stupid thing will probably only make him hound me worse. Six beers isn't going to cut it."

Arthur heard the other man give a lofty sigh. "Arthur. Sweet, innocent Arthur." Gilbert's voice was smug and softly patronizing. "You should know me well enough by now to realize that I have a cunnin' and ingenious plan, the likes of which would probably reduce your sorry little mind to dust if you even so much as thought about it."

"Do tell," Arthur said drolly, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck as a wayward autumn breeze sent a slight chill down his spine. "It'll thrill me, I'm sure."

Suddenly the sound of the keg being tortured against the sidewalk stopped, and Arthur turned around to see Gilbert peering over a fence. "How many more blocks you say we have to go?" the pale man asked.

Arthur closed his eyes and pictured the map in his head. "Two. Give or take."

Gilbert cackled to himself and hoisted the keg over the picket fence. Arthur squawked in alarm and scrambled after him, hissing under his breath, "Gilbert for fuck's sake get the hell out of these people's yard! What in God's name are you doing?!"

"Watch and learn, my young padawan," Gilbert snickered, dragging the keg over to the side of the house. Arthur could barely see the other man in the dim glow of the street lamp, the silver head darting back and forth as though searching for something. Finally, Gilbert made a small noise of triumph, and scurried over to a small section of house, dragging back a garden hose with him. He pried the top off of the keg and stuck the hose in. Arthur could hear the sound of water splashing to the bottom of the aluminum barrel.

"This is your igneous plan?" he hissed. "To steal water from some poor sod's garden?"

"Which, when coupled with the six beers I threw in here earlier, plus a little food colorin' and some flavorin' I brought along with me, makes a pretty damn convincin' cheap beer." Gilbert sounded as though he had just won the Nobel Prize.

Arthur watched Gilbert finish filling the keg and replace the hose with what he was sure was probably an ungodly stupid look on his face. "B-But…" he stammered, "But how're you going to seal it? Don't you need-"

"Already taken care of."

Gilbert shrugged his backpack off his shoulders and set it down on the lawn, where he began emptying the contents at a rapid pace. Arthur had time to register a bizarre looking set of tubes and a can of compressed air before Gilbert bent over the keg and started shoving things in holes. There was a blinding flash, a hiss of air, and suddenly Gilbert was standing next to him, wiping his hands on his jeans with a look of unabashed triumph on his face.

"It is a thing of grace and beauty," Gilbert said loftily, his hands on his hips. "Majesty and awe. Behold, my froggy companion, the-"

"That's the French, you ponce."

Gilbert sighed irritably. "Just look at the goddamn thing, would you?"

Arthur stared. He took a drag of his cig. Then he stared again.

"Gilbert."

"Yeah?"

"Just answer me one question."

"Shoot."

"…Why the duct tape?"

Gilbert frowned, and tilted his head to the side, studying the thing. "Is it really that noticeable?" he asked, walking forward to aim a swift kick at the sorry excuse for a keg. "I figured gray on gray… it could work, right?"

Arthur fished out another crumpled cigarette from his pocket and picked off the filter with a look of resignation.

This was going to be a long night.

***

Ludwig stood in a corner, his eye twitching ever so slightly in rhythm with the sickeningly loud bass that was pulsing through the house. The beer in his right hand was steadily approaching lukewarm, and he desperately wanted to sit down but was afraid to move from his corner of safety. Every so often someone – either one of the frat members or a girl from their sister sorority – would approach him and attempt to engage him in some form of communication. After a few awkward conversations, Ludwig figured out that all he needed to do was just stare at them until they became uncomfortable and went far, far away and left him alone with his beer friend and his fond dreams of the comforting drafting table back at the apartment. Sometimes being over six feet tall and inexplicably muscular had its advantages.

The blonde took a hesitant sip of his beer, wincing at how vile the stuff tasted. Alfred had shoved the cup into his hands early on, babbling something about 'natty ice' and 'rites of passage' before the younger man had wandered off into the throng of people and promptly began hitting on a remarkably tan girl with long black hair. Ludwig had just held the cup in his hands, and slowly backed into a corner where he hoped no one would notice him. There he had remained for a good – he checked his watch and scowled – three hours, still holding onto the same forlorn cup of beer while all around him Alfred's meathead fraternity brothers were doing body shots off of bleach blonde sorority girls and everyone was drinking beer and tequila and giggling and vomiting and shouting and most likely screwing in some of the darker corners and generally having a fantastic time.

Ludwig wanted to off the lot of them.

The front door of the house banged opened, and Alfred pulled himself off of the new blonde girl he was getting to know Biblically and staggered towards the door. Ludwig heard him shout, "No fuckin' way!" and irritably wondered what the fuss was all about. Maybe it was the police, come to rescue him from this den of depravity. One could only hope.

But then Alfred staggered back into the room, dragging a keg that had probably been a pipe bomb in a previous life under one arm, while the other was slung around the shoulders of a rather murderous looking blonde fellow. Alfred unceremoniously dropped the keg, where it promptly exploded all over the floor. Howls of outrage rang out from around the room, and packs of ten-brain-cells-apiece frat brothers scrambled to salvage as much of the suspicious looking beer as they could. Alfred blinked down at the mass of humanity that had spontaneously appeared at his feet, but otherwise seemed unfazed as he called out, "Everyone! Shut up for a sec!"

This of course did nothing except cause a few rather put-out looking girls to glare at him. Alfred bullied on, shoving the now distressed looking blonde in front of him as he yelled, "Guys! Get this! That… that British dude who sounds like Crocodile Dundee! He actually showed up! Let's make him say stuff!!"

The sandy haired blonde had a moment to yell back something along the lines of, "I didn't come here to pander to your sick fantasies, Jones!" before about a half a dozen girls launched themselves drunkenly at the British man, all clamoring for him to say something English. He stumbled back into a sofa with an undignified screech as the vixens overwhelmed him.

Ludwig flushed slightly at some of the more interesting requests the ladies had for the Englishman and turned his head to stare off into the hallway, pointedly ignoring the couch that was beginning to creak alarmingly under the weight of so many dolled-up floozies. Ludwig grimaced and shook his head. His internal monologue was starting to sound a bit too much like his father. He took another swig of beer to fix that problem, his mouth curling up in a grimace at the now rancid taste.

A sudden noise from the general vicinity of the couch made him focus his attention back. The British man – Arthur, was it? Alfred had told him at some point but Ludwig was terrible with names seeing as how he couldn't bring himself much to care – was attempting to extract himself from a sorority sandwich, while a gaggle of onlookers was betting on how long it would take him to get away and debating why any man alive would even think about wanting to escape.

The Brit called out in a rather feeble voice just as a girl accidentally stepped on his throat, quite possibly damaging his windpipe beyond repair. "For fuck's sake, Gilbert," the poor man wheezed out, "Don't just stand there! Get them off of me!"

A disturbingly pale man with freakish red eyes wandered out from the hallway, smirking like he owned the place. He strode across the room to stand over the couch and took a casual sip of his… drink. If a liter of vodka duct-taped to a hand could even be called that.

"I dunno, Kirkland," the pale man drawled, leaning against the couch with a haughty look on his face. "I'm thinkin' about joinin' you in a sec. Sans the you, of course."

"No, Gilbert, they-AH!" the Englishman shrieked piteously as one of the women stepped on his face as she exited the couch. "They have fingernails!" the Brit yelled. "And some of them still have those pointy shoe things on!"

The other man just took another swig of his drink, his grin suggesting that he found the entire situation far too amusing to even bother dignifying it with words, but at the same time felt the world would be worse off without his commentary. "Man up or shut up, Kirk," he smirked. "Keep in mind you got an audience in here. And I've got twenty bucks ridin' on you passin' out from pure bliss in about two more minutes. Don't let me down, English."

Ludwig rolled his eyes and promptly lost interest in the whole affair. He clutched at his drink morosely for a while, employing the stare-off technique every one in a while to keep would-be conversationalists at bay. Suddenly, however, his view of depravity was obscured by an unruly mop of unnatural silver hair. He started slightly, and took a step backwards so he could look into the intruder's face. He frowned. It was the pale man. Presumably Arthur's friend. The German gave a heavy sigh. His stare technique probably wouldn't work on this one. He looked too far-gone already, if the red eyes were any indication.

"Can I help you with something?" Ludwig said as offhandedly as he could manage.

The shorter man just stared up at him with those creepy red eyes. Ludwig was getting ready to say something about respecting one's personal bubble when he spoke.

"You go to Joe's?"

The blonde blinked, and checked to make sure that those words had indeed been in English. He still had trouble with the language sometimes. Grammar was a foul thing and in an ideal world would have been taken out back and shot in the mid twelfth-century. When everything checked out mentally and he still had no idea what the other man was on about, Ludwig said slowly, "Could you… could you phrase that in a different way? Leaving me alone is also a viable option," he added hastily.

The pale man stared at him. "What are you, special or somethin'?"

"Foreign, actually," Ludwig droned, "Although I've been told it's easy for Americans to make that mistake." He took another step away from the clearly mad man, a slight bit of panic worming its way into his head when he felt his back hit the oak wall.

"Whatever." The shorter man took another swig of his drink, and looked up at Ludwig with sharp, intelligent eyes. "Just answer the question. Joe's. Yes or no."

"I don't know anyone named Joe," Ludwig said lamely, trying to judge whether or not a red plastic cup of most likely poisonous beer could be used as a weapon. "You're obviously mistaken. Best of luck, and all that. In your search, I mean." Ludwig could actually hear himself babbling, and yelled at his brain to shut up his tongue before it got him into any more trouble. His brain however, had finally started to register the cheap booze he'd been swigging for the past three hours and was reluctant to comply.

The man in front of him took another step forward, looking vaguely irritated about something. He was so close that Ludwig could practically feel the heat radiating off of the shorter man's body. He wanted very much to be somewhere else. At this point he'd take anything. Russia. Egypt. The Mariana Trench. Deep space. That creepy old folk's home down the street. Paris. A New York subway car. Detroit-

Ludwig took a deep breath when he realized he'd started making what Alfred called 'The Lists'. The American always said this with a rather dire tone of voice – the kind you'd use for giving a eulogy at a funeral. He had explained to Ludwig in a patient albeit condescending way that normal people did not have to make lists to keep themselves calm in stressful situations. But since the whole list thing could be considered part of the German man's charm he'd allow it on the condition that the lists always remain strictly internal and would he please stop leaving little scraps of paper around the apartment with jumbles of words scribbled all over them because it had really freaked his last girlfriend out when she thought he was going to go all Howard Hughes on her. Ludwig had agreed, and simply stashed the piles of notebooks full of lists in his closet under a bunch of coats. He never could bring himself to throw them away.

Suddenly a loud voice in front of him made Ludwig jump back slightly, forgetting that his back was to the wall. His head hit the oak paneling with a satisfying crunch, and through a mind full of cotton balls he heard the shorter man laugh delightedly.

"The fuck's wrong with you dude? You high or somethin'? Can I take a hit?"

The voice was closer to a sneer than to an actual inquiry, but Ludwig managed to pull himself together enough to mumble, "What's a Joe's?"

"Joe's bar." Ludwig's vision was slowly returning to normal as he shook his head and looked down at the pale face in front of him. It looked amused. Not a nice kind of amused, but the kind little kids have on their faces when they find a colony of ants to burn. The face continued talking, it's smirk growing bigger. "You just looked kinda familiar. So I wondered if I'd seen you at Joe's." It laughed, and Ludwig looked around for something to be sick in. "Guess not."

The body belonging to the face clapped him on the back and pressed a drink into his hands. "Drink this," it said reassuringly, "You'll feel better."

Ludwig just nodded and downed the drink in one smooth motion. It tasted like cough syrup, and he forced himself to keep it down, holding one hand against the wall so he wouldn't pitch forward. He stood still for a few minutes to let his mind reassemble itself, making short lists in his head until he felt better. The lists grew longer and longer until finally he was able to stand up straight and look around. He frowned slightly. The pale man was no where to be seen. He examined the cup he was holding and read the name scrawled in sloppy handwriting on the side.

His Majesty Gilbert.

Ludwig snorted, and set the cup down on a nearby table.

What a fucking twat.

***

Gilbert was prowling the house, humming to himself. Every time he saw someone else take a drink he would salute them rakishly and take a swig from the forty taped to his hand. He had made a pact with himself that he was going to finish the damn thing without succumbing to alcohol poisoning. Not like last time. As fun as it had been retching all over Arthur's car, Arthur's wardrobe, and Arthur, the cleaning bill the irritated Englishman had forced upon him actually managed to put a dent in his wallet – something that was surprisingly hard to do nowadays. But he was damned if he was going to pussy out this time. He'd promised to buy himself a Playstation Three if he managed to finish the entire thing. Some people might consider the whole idea either a bit backwards or a tiny bit depressing due to the fact that he had no one else to make bets with other than himself and an unfortunate British man who had long ago learned to automatically go into hiding the moment the word 'bet' passed his lips. But Gilbert had come to realize something very important over the years, and that was the undeniable fact that no one, not ever, was going to be able to keep up with him.

Sometimes when he had just narrowly escaped falling into the hands of fucking do-gooders and their rabble of policemen, or when he had inadvertently blown the lid on his latest scam, or forgotten to pay some nefarious character for some shady black market dealings, all he had to do was just think about this undeniable gem of truth, and then he'd remember that everything was going be okay again. Because he just. Couldn't. Lose.

And he never did.

Except for the last time he had a forty taped to his arm. But Gilbert refused to think about that painful memory any longer. And besides, Arthur was paid up and he had enough blackmail on the Brit to keep him silenced for years. Particularly from that one night the Englishman got completely blazed and went around to all the neighborhood pet shops freeing all the hamsters and telling them to run and save themselves just because Gilbert had made an offhanded comment about how he thought hamsters would probably taste alright fried, as long as they gave him ketchup or something to go along with them.

Gilbert wandered aimlessly into one of the back rooms and stumbled across what looked like a heated game of pool. He grinned to himself and strode in, skillfully ducking out of the way as an enraged football player swung a cue through the air, aiming for an obnoxious looking blonde perched on the edge of the table. The blonde managed to dodge as well, laughing as he did so.

"Can it, Smith," he grinned, "You lost fair and square."

"Fuck you!" the beefy enraged cue-man bellowed Neanderthalishly, and Gilbert stood off to the side to watch the hopefully bloody match. He started to frown as the blonde managed to dodge every one of the swings, and briefly entertained the idea of tossing a few of the billiard balls into the mix just to liven things up. He could see the blonde starting to get annoyed though, if the slight pulling at the corners of his mouth were any indication. With a frustrated growl, the blonde suddenly lunged forward, catching the other guy around the waist – who had to outweigh the rather scrawny man by at least a hundred pounds – and throwing him to the ground with ease. Gilbert actually heard the wind get knocked out of the guy, even from his removed post.

From his position of defeat on the floor, the large main stared up at the blonde, blinking owlishly in surprise. "Jones… you threw me."

The blonde – Jones, Gilbert had managed to deduce, even though his now pleasantly fuzzy brainwaves – just grinned. "Looks like."

"But… but you're a quarterback!" the hulking man protested.

"And that brilliant deduction just proves why you're stuck as a defensive linesman, Smith," Jones said cheerfully, picking up a beer off of the side table and throwing it back.

Gilbert started slightly, remembering his self-imposed rule, and took a hefty drag of his own drink. He looked up to find the blonde staring at him curiously. Gilbert just lifted his chin slightly by way of greeting, and the other man strode over, pretending to kick the fallen Smith out of his way as he did so. He stopped directly in front of Gilbert and gave him a sunny grin.

"Hey. You wouldn't happen to be Bial, would you?"

Gilbert kind of wanted to smash his glass hand into the grinning face, but feared for his liqueur. So instead he said as pleasantly as he could, "No. The fuck are you?"

The blonde just grinned wider and stuck out his hand. "Alfred Jones. Vice-President of the fraternity." Gilbert stared at the hand before vaguely waving his own encumbered appendage in the blonde's general direction. "Gilbert."

Jones laughed. "Gilbert, huh. That's a weird-"

"The last guy who made fun of my name ended up with a broken bottle of vodka where his eyes used to be," Gilbert interrupted idly, taking another swig of his drink.

Jones blinked and tilted his head to the side, his arms crossed over his chest. "Fair enough," was all he said. "I've had my share of being called Christian Bale's butler. Can kinda see where you're comin' from with that." The blonde jerked his head over his shoulder, the jester grin back on his face. "You wanna play?"

Gilbert just wordlessly held up his hand, and Jones burst out laughing. "So that is actually duct-taped on there!" he grinned. "Man, how do you use the can like that?"

"You don't." Gilbert was starting to get bored, his eyes began roaming the room of their own accord, searching for something interesting. "Part of the challenge."

"Really." Jones's grin turned cutthroat. "Bet I can match that."

That had Gilbert's attention. The pale man snorted. "Look, kid. I'd like to say it's admirable of you to even pretend to try, but you've gotta be, what, fifteen?"

"Nineteen," Jones snapped, and Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Like four fuckin' years' gonna be able to make a difference," he drawled, "Even if that was a nice moved you pulled on mister missin' chromosome back there."

"I'm still here you know."

"Shut up Smith," Jones said pleasantly, "That fifteen beers you now owe me."

The Neanderthal staggered to his feet, and Gilbert raised one eyebrow at the slightly murderous expression on the cretin's face.

"It's twelve, Jones!" the Incredible Unintelligible Hulk slurred, "I still say you cheated!"

Suddenly the blonde whipped around to face the mountain of a man, and Gilbert could see that something was about to set him off. He vaguely hoped for a bloodbath. Considering how fast Jones seemed to be, he might even have a fighting chance. Unless the other guy just fell on him or something. Gilbert was amazed the floor was even intact where the Goliath was standing. He took another step backwards so as not to be sucked into the black hole that would undoubtedly be created should the guy suddenly collapse in on himself like a neutron star from the sheer amount of his mass alone.

But Jones didn't seem to really care about the rather weighted odds as he stalked forward. The blonde's expression must have been something else because Gilbert actually saw Smith or whatever falter and take a step backwards. Jones continued to walk forward, his hands clenched into fists at his side.

"I am many things, Smith," the blonde said calmly, "But a cheater is not one of them."

Smith took another step back, and then looked around, seeming to realize that he'd unconsciously tried to put some distance between himself and the blonde. He puffed up his chest and stepped forward to meet Jones. "Well I'm callin' you one. So stop bein' a fuckin' pussy and just confess!"

The blonde stood still for a moment, and Gilbert took another swig of his drink, absently noting how Jones's shoulders were trembling. For a moment, no one moved. Then, the hulking mass shifted ever so slightly, probably trying to hide the movement. But Gilbert saw the twitch for what it was, and took a step sideways so he would be out of range when the big man charged.

As it turned out, he needn't have bothered.

Not a split second after the other man had moved, Jones hurled forward, neatly sidestepping Smith's surprisingly nimble lunge. The blonde ducked, and then rammed a fist into the bigger man's stomach. Gilbert groaned.

"No, you halfwit!" he yelled, almost hopping up and down with frustration. "The face, moron! The fuck you aim for the thickest bit of him for?!" He snorted and took another long drink out of the forty. Kids these days. Fucking incompetent.

Smith roared in outrage at the insult and lunged again. Gilbert barely registered Jones throwing him an abashed grin before the blonde took a quick step backwards to dodge, and then thew a right hook at the bigger man's face. It connected with a rather amusing popping sound, and Smith looked stupidly surprised before crumbling to the floor in a ragged heap. Jones stumbled as well and fell against a row of bar stools lined up against the wall. He breathed heavily for a second before clambering to his feet, nursing his right hand. The blonde walked back over to where Gilbert was standing against the wall, and gave the older man a rueful grin.

"Thanks. Smith can be a nasty drunk."

"…Don't worry about it," Gilbert said finally, eyeing the still groaning heap of stupidity on the floor. "Was kinda lookin' forward to seein' your brains splattered all over the place, though."

Jones just laughed. "You and Smith have something in common then," he said cheerfully. "The guy's been gunnin' for me ever since coach had me use his head as target practice one game. Least, that's the excuse I gave him for chuckin' so many footballs at his head. I actually had a bet goin' with some of the guys that I could get him down to one brain cell before the end of the first quarter."

From the floor game a gurgled cry of, "Fuck you Jones I knew that coach'd never say that…" before the voice trailed off again into a pathetic whimper.

Gilbert eyed the sorry lump for a moment and then turned around to find Jones gingerly poking at the bruises on his hand.

"Physics," the blonde muttered angrily, letting his hand fall to his side. "Never quite could get the hang of that whole 'for every reaction' thing…"

Gilbert's mouth twitched slightly but he said nothing, taking another swig of his drink.

Jones glanced at him, his blue eyes amused. "So. Drinkin' contest?"

Gilbert snorted. "Fine, brat. Bring it on."

This was going to be the easiest bet ever.

***

Arthur had managed to extract himself from the throng of women after they realized that the only thing British they were going to get out of him was a string of unintelligible swear words. He had immediately retreated to the back of the house, sighing in relief when he found the kitchen to be blessedly unoccupied. He sank down into one of the kitchen chairs and let his head thud onto the table. Life was shit. He wanted a fag. Then he remembered that Gilbert had nicked his last one so he could trade it for a hit of weed, and he lost the will to live.

He sat slumped over the table for a few minutes, trying to ignore how disturbingly sticky the surface was as thoughts of bizarre fraternity hazing rituals played colorful little pictures in his mind. He hoped to god that was just mayonnaise or something.

Arthur heard the kitchen door swing open and a set of feet make their way to the refrigerator with the sure steps of someone who already knew what they were looking for. There was a cool breeze as the fridge door opened and shut, and the floor shuddered a bit as another one of the kitchen chairs was dragged against it. Suddenly something skittered across the table, and Arthur raised his head to focus blearily on the object in front of him. He blinked and sat up straight, plucking the tiny can off of the table. He looked up and saw an Asian guy staring at him with a tiny grin on his face.

"Hangover already?"

Arthur shook his head and set the can down. "Not… quite," he said warily. "Just got a bunch of stilettos to the face is all."

The other man laughed. "So you're the one all the girls from Alpha Gam were talking about." He smiled apologetically, "I would have rescued you sooner had I known it wasn't one of the house members trapped under there."

Arthur snorted, and eyed the tiny can still sitting atop the table. "Yeah. Bunch of winners, they are. I think one of them dumped a cup of beer in my face on purpose."

The Asian man laughed, setting his own drink down on the table. "I would like to assure you it was not maliciously intended, but… oh- that's a hangover cure by the way. If you don't want it I'll just pocket it to give to Alfred later."

Arthur blinked and stared up at the shorter man. "You… you're friends with Jones?" he said, his voice a bit louder than he had intended.

The other man seemed surprised, and took a small sip of his drink. "You don't know who I am?"

Arthur fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Unless you're that master ninja from The Karate Kid, then no. Sorry."

The black-haired man smiled, and held out his hand. "Kiku Honda. President of Phi Beta Sigma house. It's a pleasure."

Arthur just stared at the hand before saying weakly, "Wait. President? As in… the bloke who's in charge of all these other blokes in this madhouse?"

"One and the same."

Arthur spluttered, "But… but how? You seem so…"

Honda just smiled broader. "The Fraternity does more than simply host parties. We do quite a bit of charity work in the community. You could say I'm the face of that aspect of the organization."

Arthur hoped his face didn't reflect the rousing cry of 'bullshit' that was echoing through his mind, but he took the other man's hand anyway. He released it quickly and tried to crack a smile. "Who's the main face then? You got a secretary of alcohol poisoning or something?"

Honda chuckled and took another sip of his drink, tilting his head to the side. "If you mean to ask who is the party organizer of this group… then just wait a few more moments and I won't even need to answer."

At that moment the door to the kitchen crashed open and Jones staggered in, clutching a potted plant to his chest and looking vaguely confused. "Whoat. This isn't the bathroom…" He spotted the two men seated at the table, and a huge grin blossomed on his face. He bounded over to where they were sitting, and Arthur was almost bowled over by the stench of alcohol.

"Brit! You made it! And you brought booze!" Jones yelled right in his face and Arthur gagged.

"Good lord, man. Have some self-respect," he shouted, shoving the American away. Jones started to fall but Honda rose from his chair and with one elegant motion and grabbed the tall blonde, forcing him down into a chair.

"Alfred. What have I told you about drunken shouting?" Honda said fondly, wrenching the poor plant out of the American's grasp.

Jones frowned, and looked a bit pained for a moment, but Arthur just held up his hand. "It's alright. Just… I'm going to go." He rose to his feet, but a grip on his wrist stopped him. He looked down to find Jones staring up at him, a look of intense concentration on his face.

"What, Jones?" Arthur snapped, "The agreement was I show up. Having spent a significantly longer amount of time in this hellhole than I would've liked, I'd say our pact is filled."

For a moment Jones looked entirely sober, and he stared up into the British man's face with a serious expression. "It's always about bargains with you isn't it, Arthur," he said quietly.

Arthur froze, his breath catching in his throat. There was something tugging at him. Something that was important about that. About bargains, or treaties or –

But then it was gone and Jones was making a face like he was going to be ill. He released Arthur's sleeve and turned to look piteously at Honda.

"Need your help, prez," he said hoarsely. "One of the Alpha Gams just found Ludwig passed out in the downstairs toilet. Was gonna go get him myself but…" He grinned, sheepishly, "Got lost."

Honda gave a sigh but stood up, casting Arthur a rather troubled look. "I hate to ask this of you, Mister…"

"Kirkland. Arthur Kirkland."

Honda nodded. "Very well. Mr. Kirkland. Would you…" he hesitated, and glanced down at Alfred. The blonde was sprawled across the table, his nose crushed against the surface. Arthur heard Honda give a small sigh before looking pleadingly up at him. "Alfred dragged his roommate along to this and it seems he's, ah… in a bit of trouble. I hesitate to ask, but would you mind helping me move him to a more removed location?"

Arthur glanced up at the clock on the wall. It read half four. He sighed. "Sure, I guess."

Honda's face immediately lit up as he gushed, "Thank you, so so much." He gestured towards the kitchen door and Arthur wordlessly followed the shorter man, dodging random passed out and otherwise occupied bodies as Honda prattled on, "Alfred was so worried about bringing his friend- apparently the guy is a bit of a shut in or something but Alfred just wanted to get him out of the apartment and-"

Arthur tuned the other man out as they stopped in front of a bathroom door. Honda fell silent in an instant and cautiously pushed the door open. Arthur peered inside, his eyes adjusting quickly to the dim light. There was a rather large blonde man passed out on the floor, his chest rising and falling steadily. Arthur gingerly stepped into the room, keeping an eye out for any puddles of sick that might be lying in ambush. He knelt down next to the prone figure and glanced up at Honda.

"This the bloke?"

Honda nodded, worrying at his lower lip. "I think so," he said slowly, "I've only met the man a few times…His name is Ludwig, I think…"

The British man nodded. "Alright. He's breathing fine and-" he lifted up one of the blonde's eyelids, nodding at what he saw "-and his pupils are contracting fine. Let's get him out of here."

Arthur bent down and looped one of the hefty man's arms around his shoulder. Honda immediately moved to help him. One they were as upright as they could manage, they stumbled into the hallway.

"Where…" Arthur was panting slightly under the weight. The guy was fucking built.

"Stairs," Honda said shortly. "And quickly. I think I'm getting ready to pass out…"

Between the two of them they managed to get Ludwig up the stairs and into Honda's bedroom. They let the blonde fall gracelessly onto the bed with a sigh of relief, and Honda immediately sank into an armchair, groaning.

"Alfred is going to owe me so much for this…"

Arthur snorted and sat down on the floor with his back to the wall. "Make him pay you triple. I want a cut. He's so pissed there's no way he'll be able to remember this."

"Hm," Honda yawned, and stretched his arms over his head. Arthur glanced at the clock. Ten till five. He thought of the long walk home and groaned.

"D'you mind if I just have a kip on your floor here, oh illustrious leader?" Arthur droned.

From the other side of the room, Honda laughed. "Not at all. Make yourself at home."

"Thanks, mate…" Arthur closed his eyes, feeling a cut on his forehead from one of those plastered minxes that had assaulted him earlier. He sighed. This was barely worth having leverage over Jones. Barely.

The door to Honda's bedroom suddenly burst open, and Gilbert staggered in, the now empty forty of vodka still duct-taped to his hand. He spotted Arthur on the floor and immediately looked relieved.

"There you are," he slurred, stumbling closer. "Been lookin' all over the fuckin' place for you." Gilbert seemed to notice Honda sitting in the chair with a bemused expression on his face. The pale man gestured with the empty bottle. "Who's the Jap?"

Honda frowned slightly, but made no comment. Arthur rolled his eyes. "Keep the racist banter to an internal monologue, Gilbert. That's… Honda something. Or something Honda." He looked up wearily at the short man. "Which is it?"

"Something Honda," the dark-haired man deadpanned, still staring at Gilbert. "And you are…?"

Gilbert grinned. "Fuckin' wasted, man. Good t' meetcha." He carefully maneuvered his head so that he was staring down at Arthur. "So we're crashin' here tonight."

"Agreed." Arthur did his best not to retch at the idea of waking up in the same house as Jones. But walking home twenty five blocks with a pissed and therefore inordinately violent Gilbert had less than zero appeal. The last time they both tried to stumble home from a pub that was merely two blocks away, they'd still managed to somehow wake up in a gunshot riddled dumpster in a park on the rather dangerous east side. He'd smelled like rotten pizza boxes for a week. It was not an olfactory experience he was relishing repeating any time soon.

Gilbert just laughed like a Star Trek villain as he was prone to do when he was completely shitfaced and ripped the duct tape off of his hand, throwing the empty vodka handle into a corner. It was a testament to how much he'd had that he didn't even flinch from the bright red marks on his hand and wrist the tape left behind. Arthur just stared at his roommate. "The fuck you have that thing strapped to your bleedin' arm for, anyway?"

Gilbert grinned maniacally. "Game I made up called 'Edward Forty Hands'. A forty in each hand, duct tape, can't let go till you've finished the lot. Bitchin' way to get completely blacked." The pale man staggered over to the bed, barely missing stepping on Arthur's head. The British man thwacked him on the kneecap, muttering, "Watch it, git. Last thing I want's an imprint of your sodding foot on my face for all eternity."

Gilbert didn't respond. Arthur blinked and propped himself up on one elbow, glancing up at his roommate. The pale man was just standing at the edge of the bed, a curious little frown on his face as he studied the prone figure lying on top of it. Arthur waited a moment before asking cautiously, "You're not going to be sick all over everything, are you? That's Alfred's roommate – whatsit, Ludwig or something insane like that. You vomit on him and Jones might make me do something else to compensate."

The voice seemed to wake Gilbert slightly, but he still kept staring at the bed. "No…," he said slowly, "I mean… I feel… off, is all. Kind of cold maybe…"

He shook his head slowly, and Arthur rose to his feet, a small feeling of panic growing in his chest. "Gilbert," he said, as calmly as he could, "I need you to answer me seriously. Have you done anything out of the ordinary-" He stopped himself, and rephrased the question, "Have you done anything this evening that normal people would consider strange or unusual?"

He heard Honda stir in his chair and call out softly, "Is everything all right? Do we need to take him to the hospital?"

"No," Gilbert snapped without a moment's hesitation, his gaze never wavering from Ludwig's peacefully sleeping face. "No fuckin' hospitals. And stay out of this, Twinkie. It's none of your goddamn business." The pale man was biting his bottom lip, his entire body tense as though trying to decide whether to flee or to lash out at something that was invisible to everyone but him.

Arthur threw a half-hearted apologetic glance over his shoulder at Honda, but the shorter man just shrugged, seemingly unfazed and curled up again in his chair. The British man focused again on his roommate, the slight prick of worry starting to take up serious residence. But suddenly Gilbert seemed to collapse in on himself, and he blinked his eyes rapidly before straightening his back. He gave Arthur a shaky grin and ran his hands through his sweat-dampened hair. "Sorry about that," the pale man said, his voice a shadow of its usual self. "You too, Mitsubishi. Felt like somethin' just kinda… snapped in there for a bit." He gave a rather feeble laugh, and Arthur relaxed slightly, sitting back down on the floor, rolling his eyes, "Well next time could you have your fits somewhere else? I'm not really equipped to deal with bouts of IMS at the drop of a hat, you know."

"Fuck off, Captain Kirk," Gilbert said amiably. He glanced down at the bed again, and frowned. Arthur braced himself for another bizarre mood swing, and was surprised when Gilbert reached out and carefully removed the thin wire glasses that were hanging akimbo off of Ludwig's face. He gently folded them and placed them on the bedside table before walking over to the other side of the bed and flopping down on it, shoving the passed out blonde over to make room.

Arthur just watched his roommate's bizarre behavior with concern, trying to pick a single question from the roughly two billion that were floating through his head. Finally, he settled on, "Why the glasses?"

"Hm?" Gilbert called out sleepily from the other side of the blonde mountain. "What glasses?"

"Louheilm's. Or Luddikis's. The blonde fellow you're practically spooning, you ponce!" Arthur fought to keep his voice quiet and his temper under control. This was really turning out to be a bizarre evening he'd rather not remember in the morning. Unfortunately, in between the obviously sex-starved sorority bimbos and the hauling of unconscious blonde men up flights of stairs, he'd barely had time to pull back two drinks. Maybe someone here had a roofie he could take. This was a frat house, after all.

He heard Gilbert shift around and mutter irritably, "'M not fuckin' spoonin'. I just hate sleepin' on floors. It's my one weird thing and you know it."

"Gilbert that is hardly even the tip of the motherfucking iceberg," Arthur droned. "Seriously though. The glasses."

Gilbert sighed heavily. "'Cause, retard," his voice was quiet and sleepy, "They get bent when he falls asleep with them on."

Arthur rolled his eyes and settled back down on the floor, trying to ignore the heavy thud of the bass that was still most likely reducing the old house's foundations to dust. Maybe he'd get lucky and the entire thing would collapse, killing all inside in one massive bimbo cleansing. He could feel himself slipping off into unconsciousness, but there was something that was still nagging at him and refused to let him sleep. Arthur frowned, concentrating, and suddenly he opened his eyes and sat up, wishing he had someone to talk to.

He quickly rose to his feet, stumbling slightly in the darkened room, and glanced down at the bed, where now both Gilbert and Ludwig were sleeping. He took a deep breath and felt his heart rate slow back to normal. The two were on opposite extreme edges, Gilbert clutching his pillow to his chest like he usually did instead of sleeping with it under his head like a normal person. Arthur gave a small sigh and sat back down on the floor and tried to force himself to relax. Maybe he'd just misheard before. Gilbert was extremely drunk, after all.

He closed his eyes, listening to the distant sounds of people running amok in the abused house.

But still…

He struggled against sleep as that one nagging though resurfaced, but finally succumbed. His breathing evened out and steadied, the rest of the house gradually falling silent as well with the first pale streaks of false dawn.

The glasses remained neatly folded on the bedside table as Gilbert stirred in his sleep.

There was the distant sound of breaking glass, and the last dredges of laughter floated up to the top floor, masking the one, quiet word of longing that fell unnoticed from chapped lips.

_…West…_


End file.
